


just one look (and i fell so hard)

by disgruntledkittenface



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (a little bit of) face fucking, American AU, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Broadway, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Meet-Cute, New York City, Overstimulation, POV switch, Smut, Theatre District, To Kill A Mockingbird on Broadway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-02-28 13:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18757351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disgruntledkittenface/pseuds/disgruntledkittenface
Summary: Louis takes a small step back, breaking the moment first. “Well, I should–”“Do you want to come up?”The words are out of Harry’s mouth before he’d even planned them, and he bites his lip.“Oh, thank god,” Louis laughs, stepping back into Harry’s space. “I wasn’t, um…”“Wasn’t ready to let go of you yet,” Harry finishes quietly, glancing up at Louis.“Yeah,” Louis nods, reaching up and twirling one of Harry’s curls in his fingers. “Yeah, exactly.”Harry has wanted to go to the Shubert Theatre ever since he moved to New York and lucked into a rent-controlled apartment just outside of the Theatre District. When he finally gets his chance, he hopes the night can meet his sky-high expectations. But the last thing he could have expected was the man seated next to him.





	just one look (and i fell so hard)

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so happy to be a part of this challenge, and I want to thank the mods for running it. I’ve had the idea for this fic forever and I’ve loved getting the chance to finally write it. All the love to my friend who was not creeped out at all when I emailed her to say “hey, do you remember tweeting about this a year ago? Can I pick your brain for a fic based on it?” This wouldn’t have been possible without her and the other friends who were so generous with their time and knowledge, and from the bottom of my heart, thank you so much <3

There’s not much room for Harry’s gangly legs in the cramped aisle, so he keeps his head down as he shuffles to his seat, nodding and murmuring thanks as the other theatre-goers in his row shift to accommodate him. He makes it without incident, no tripping or stumbling, and sinks into a seat about halfway down, clutching his ticket and Playbill to his chest and sighing in relief.

He made it. Finally.

And not just through the lines and crowded hallways to his seat without clumsy incident; he _made_ it. Harry’s wanted to come to the Shubert Theatre ever since he moved to New York and lucked into a rent-controlled apartment just outside of the Theatre District. For years, he’s passed by it at least once a day, occasionally committing the unforgivable New York crime of pausing mid-sidewalk to admire the distinct corner building’s palatial exterior.

The ticket – to an adaptation of his all-time favorite book, To Kill A Mockingbird – was a birthday gift from his grandparents, a total surprise, purchased on their ancient desktop computer in the cabin up north they’ve retired to full time back home in Michigan. They’d both apologized for the wait, speaking over each other from different extensions when he’d talked to them on the phone on his actual birthday over a month ago; they hadn’t known how far in advance shows like this sold out.

Harry hopes they believed him when he reassured them: He had waited years for a chance to come to the Shubert; another few weeks was nothing. Looking around the quietly humming house, it hits Harry all over again how thoughtful this gift was. When he got his ticket in the mail, he’d winced at the price printed on it, guilt rushing over him at the stark numbers. Front mezzanine seats aren’t exactly cheap at most theatres and the Schubert is no exception; it’s the main reason it’s taken him so long to get here. But, as his grandparents had reminded him when he tried to protest it was too much, you only turn thirty once. So he’d accepted the gift and got busy waiting for the date to arrive, even downloading a countdown app on his phone.

And now he’s here.

Harry sits back in the small velvet-covered seat and tries to take in the surroundings he’d spent entirely too much time reading up on since he received his ticket. As he cranes his neck to look around the house that seats 1,500 people, he’s overwhelmed by the details calling out to him, too many to take note of each one individually. His eyes jump from the elaborate plasterwork lining the walls to the proscenium arch – which Google had helpfully explained is just a fancy term for the arch framing the opening between the stage and the auditorium – to the painted panels along the ceiling. A sigh of contentment escapes him. It’s one thing to read about the restored Venetian Renaissance decor; it’s an entirely different thing to see it person.

A knee knocking into the back of his seat jolts Harry, and he tweaks his neck looking from the ceiling to the row behind him where a well-dressed middle-aged couple are settling into their seats. Harry’s Midwestern “that’s quite alright” smile automatically takes hold on his face, but no apology is forthcoming as the man drops his Playbill on the ground and doesn’t bother to pick it up while his wife straightens her silk scarf. After a beat, Harry turns forward in his seat, smothering the urge to shake his head and cluck his tongue; he’s about to be seated directly in front of this couple for two and a half hours, not counting intermission, so he doesn’t want to give them any reason to be rude. Especially since they don’t seem to need any.

Harry smooths a hand over his own Playbill as if in apology for the one carelessly dropped to the ground behind him. He wants to save his paper ticket, maybe frame it or something stupid and sentimental like that, so he carefully tucks it into the front pocket of the short-sleeved blouse he chose for tonight. It shouldn’t get folded or bent – or worse, lost – there.

“Who told us we had to see this again?”

Harry’s ears perk up at the bored voice behind him. _Had to see this?_ Harry had been so excited, he had trouble sleeping last night and these people behind him _had_ to see it?

“Cecily,” the woman sniffs. “She was raving about it at the Leavitts’ cocktail party, remember?”

The man harrumphs and Harry leans forward to squint at the plasterwork theatre masks lining the low walls in front of the mezzanine seating. Maybe he can tune out the couple behind him if he tries hard enough.

“The reviews are good, everyone is seeing it,” the woman replies, flipping through her Playbill angrily if the rustling sound that accompanies her voice is anything to go by. “The cast has a few name actors. The lead, Daniels, he’s a playwright. Look, it says right here he even founded a theatre.”

“Yeah,” the man scoffs. “In some flyover state.”

Maybe not. Despite her protests about the pedigree of the production, the woman laughs at the cheap dig as Harry bristles; he’s _from_ that flyover state. If the manners drilled into him from birth in that flyover state didn’t prevent him from doing so, he would turn right around and give them a piece of his mind. But he was raised to not only be polite, but kind, so he remains firmly face forward in his seat, now angrily flipping through his own Playbill.

Calling on the yoga and meditation he practices daily, Harry closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, willing the tension in his shoulders away. He’s waited a long time for this, he’s not going to let these snobs ruin it for him.

“’Scuse me, sorry, thanks, sorry, thank you.”

The raspy male voice traveling down from the other end of his row piques Harry’s interest enough for him to open his eyes and glance to his left, hoping this disturbance will be only temporary, unlike the couple behind him continuing to preemptively criticize the production without bothering to keep their voices down.

Harry almost chokes on his own breath when he sees the man walking right toward the empty seat next to him. He’s slender, more compact than actually petite, with shiny caramel brown hair slipping across his forehead. Despite his apologies and thanks to the people he’s passing, he walks confidently, owning his surroundings in a way that’s hot rather than cocky. His black skinny jeans hug slim but muscular thighs and Harry’s mouth all but dries up at the sight of them.

As he gets closer, it gets even worse. Harry can make out sharp cheekbones dusted with reddish scruff, searing blue eyes topped with curved brows, and thin, pale pink lips. Harry shifts in his seat, his imagination torn between what the man could do to him with those lips and what kind of suit Harry might wear to their eventual springtime wedding. He almost whimpers; this man might as well have been created in a lab specifically for Harry, he’s so his type.

Those pale pink lips twist into what Harry fears is a knowing smile as the man reaches the seat right next to Harry and drops into it. The searing blue eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes, give him a quick once over and Harry actually gulps as the man mouths “hi.” His mind goes frustratingly blank as he stares at the man, utterly unable to think of one greeting to mouth in return.

“Did you reply to that email yet?”

The shrill voice behind them breaks the moment and Harry huffs a frustrated sigh as he shifts to face forward.

“What email?”

“I _told_ you, the coach at Columbia needs–”

“Right, right. I said I’ll get to it.”

“Well, have you done it?”

“Not yet. I’ll _get to it.”_

“Well, excuse me for wanting our daughter to get into a decent college so we can hold our heads up high in public.”

The couple’s tension permeates the air and Harry chances a look over at his seatmate. The man is already looking at him and he lifts his lovely eyebrows, tilting his head back at the couple behind them and rolling his eyes. Harry giggles – actually giggles, how _mortifying._ But the man smiles at him, and their eyes remain locked until the lights go down.

Harry has to force himself to turn toward the stage, where the curtain is finally going up.

“All rise.”

The play is riveting from those opening words and for awhile Harry manages to get lost in the small town drama in Maycomb, Alabama up on stage. He’d known that adult actors had been in cast in the roles of the children, but he’d had no idea how captivating the performances would be, particularly the actress playing Scout. Something about the woman’s mannerisms is transformative; Harry’s watching the character he’s loved since childhood come to life right before his eyes.

Just as Harry starts to forget where he is, the hallowed theatre he’s waited so long to visit, completely wrapped up in the tale being spun before them, there’s a sound behind him, a little huff of annoyance, and his concentration is broken.

“Well,” the woman hisses, “if you had just gotten back to–”

_“Enough,_ ” the man interrupts, his knee bumping against Harry’s seat again. “I’ll–”

“No, no, it’s _fine._ I’ll just do it myself.”

“No, you goddamn will not–”

“God forbid you lift one finger to help–”

“Oh, here we go again.”

Harry is just about to cluck his tongue at the couple behind him, he really is, when he feels something nudge his arm. Or someone, rather. The man next to him, somehow even more beautiful in the dim lighting with shadows falling across those cheekbones, shakes his head when Harry looks over, mouthing “wow.” Honestly Harry should have been more prepared this time to come up with a response, but every single word he knows has flown right out of his head. He manages a nod but before he can form words, a gavel banging up on stage startles him and the moment is lost.

Harry looks back to the stage and furrows his brows, trying to orient himself in the action. He’s only lost a minute or two, but it takes him an equal amount of time to catch back up. After taking a few deep breaths and rearranging his legs in the tight space, he’s calmer, more centered, and he flicks his eyes to his left. The man next to him has his eyes on the stage, a look of intent concentration on his face, and Harry forgets himself for a moment as he takes in what he can of that rather lovely face in the dark. A sliver of light falls across the man’ cheek, revealing a tiny constellation of freckles by his mouth, perfect for pressing a kiss to – that is, if Harry actually knew the man and wasn’t some stranger ogling him in the dark.

The rest of the first act follows the same cycle: The couple behind him is quiet for awhile, allowing Harry to lose himself in the show. Then they start to bicker and break his concentration, which prompts the man next to him to catch his attention and silently commiserate. Once the man’s eyes are back on the searing drama unfolding in front of them, Harry is left to sit and admire him for a moment or two before he remembers himself and tries to focus on the play.

Rinse and repeat.

His nerves are a little frazzled by it all when the curtain drops after the first act and the lights come on for intermission, so he lingers in his seat for a long moment, giving himself time to breathe in and out. The small sound of a throat clearing next to him grabs his attention and he looks over to the man with a shy smile, praying he doesn’t lose the power of speech again so he can introduce himself. The man’s blue eyes twinkle at him and Harry opens his mouth to speak–

“Do you _honestly_ think,” the woman behind them bursts out, “that Columbia is just sitting around _waiting_ to admit our daughter? That we don’t need to–”

Harry leaps out his seat, unable to take any more of it, and the man next to him stands up too, shrugging his shoulders with an apologetic smile before turning and walking down the aisle away from Harry. Fuck. He glares at the couple, still trading barbs in their seats, before shifting his gaze to watch the man walk away. His perfect, peachy bum sways in those tight black jeans and Harry bites his lip as his imagination wanders again at the possibilities. Once the man reaches the aisle, Harry turns to scoot the other way down the row, intent on putting some distance between himself and the couple behind him.

A throng of people lining up for the small bar and restrooms makes the hallway almost impossible to navigate; Harry bumps right into a man with a cigarette girl-style tray around his neck. He tries to apologize, but the man is too busy selling candy and bottles of water to the audience members swarming him to take much notice. Once he finally reaches the stairs, Harry trips down the two flights leading to the theatre’s largest bar, below the orchestra level. He doesn’t really want a drink, especially not at the prices he knows they charge, but he does want to get a look at the large open room he’s read about online. The low ceiling makes the glittery chandelier seem almost within reach and Harry stands off to the side to admire its light splashing across the bar at the back and the benches and chairs scattered throughout filled by chattering theatre-goers.

Meandering through the lounge, Harry wishes that people still dressed for the theatre, as that would make for vastly more interesting people watching. He stops in front of the merchandise booth, grateful that there’s more breathing room down here so he can actually get a good look. Between the crowd and the cramped space on the mezzanine level, it hadn’t been worth trying to get close to the small booth there. Harry takes his time peering through the glass case displaying mugs and smaller items before turning his attention to the apparel hung behind the booth, including some Black Lives Matters t-shirts. He recognizes the stark red letters of the opening line, ALL RISE, that appears on most of the merchandise from the banners all along 44th Street that he’s walked past for months now. He didn’t really budget to purchase anything, though, so he walks away with his hands empty.

After a quick stop in the bathroom, much less crowded down here since it’s the largest one, he starts to make his way back to his seat, shuffling along slowly so as to minimize his time spent in front of the bickering couple but also to take in the details along his way. He’s not a student of design, but he can still appreciate the craftsmanship that went into this theatre; it’s truly breathtaking up close.

When the lights flash to warn there are only five minutes left until the end of intermission, Harry realizes he let himself dawdle too long. He hustles up the last flight of stairs, determined not to be one of those people disrupting the show by returning to his seat after the house lights go down. He weaves through the other stragglers as best he can and finally collapses into his seat, breathless, with just a minute to spare. The couple behind him seems to have reached an impasse; they’re sitting in stony silence as the woman glares at the stage while the man sneaks a sip from a silver flask.

Harry shifts in his seat, trying to get comfortable. His limbs are just too long for the tight space, and he crosses and uncrosses his legs, searching for the best position. The armrest to his right is firmly claimed by the elderly woman next to him, but he can’t bring himself to mind since she’s been as quiet and respectful as he would have expected certain other audience members to be. The armrest to his left tempts him, but he doesn’t want to take it from the unfairly attractive man who has yet to make his way back to his seat, so Harry tucks his elbows and drops his hands into his lap, fidgeting with his Playbill. It’s going to wrinkle if he doesn’t stop, but it’s better than tapping his foot loudly as he sweats the man’s return and disturbing the other patrons.

He better come back soon; the second act is about to start. He better come back, period. Harry doesn’t even know his name, and he fully intends to by the time he leaves this theatre.

Harry’s so caught up in waiting for the man that he doesn’t even notice him tiptoeing down their row until he’s almost to his seat. The sigh of relief that Harry exhales isn’t quite as subtle as he would have hoped, and he swears the man winks at him just as the lights go down.

Harry has every intention of focusing on the show during this act, that’s why he’s here after all, but he can’t help his hyper-awareness of the man next to him. He scrunches his nose, detecting the faint scent of cigarette smoke, and concludes the man must have gone outside to smoke during intermission; that’s why he didn’t spot him at the bar downstairs. Not that he’d been looking.

The sound of pages rustling draws Harry’s attention and he can’t help watching out of the corner of his eye as the man fiddles with his Playbill in the dim light. After a moment, Harry gives up pretense and watches plainly as the man carefully tucks his bent ticket into the spine of the program, presses it down so it won’t flap back up, and closes the pages over it. Once the man’s hands are still, Harry still can’t tear his eyes away from them. He’d wager they’re a bit smaller than his own, but with long fingers; when he squints, he thinks he can tell the nails are neat and trimmed.

But it’s really the man’s wrists peeking out of the long sleeves of his gray sweater that capture Harry’s gaze; they’re delicate, or fine-boned, but there’s some kind of strength about them, maybe about the man in general really, that makes Harry wonder if the man could pick him up and hold him against a wall, or fling him onto a bed. That is, until he flexes one of them, startling Harry into looking up guiltily. Their eyes meet and Harry’s cheek heat up. It takes a moment for the realization to settle in that the man looks more intrigued, curious, than angry or offended.

Harry’s debating his next move – a flirty wink, his trademark crooked grin, edging his arm onto the armrest in an attempt at sharing, abandoning the effort altogether and turning back to the stage completely – when there’s a pointed sigh behind them.

Another moment broken.

“For God’s sake–”

“I don’t see how _you_ can be upset when–”

“I said I will _get to it_ before we go to the–”

“Well, maybe I’ll just go to the country house alone.”

The woman’s remark hangs in the air between all of them, having rendered her husband momentarily silent. Harry’s jaw drops at the naked contempt in the woman’s voice. He always has a visceral response to this kind of confrontation, even when he’s just a witness to it; the hairs on the back of his neck are raised, his heartbeat picks up, and blood rushes into his ears. It feels like a small eternity, waiting for whatever’s going to happen next to actually happen, but it must only be a few seconds until the man next to him turns around in his seat.

“Sorry to bother,” he says lowly, dripping sarcasm. “But would you mind shutting the fuck up? You’re ruining the show for the rest of us with your passive-aggressive bullshit.”  

Harry automatically twists around to see the couple’s response; it looks like husband is gearing up for a retort, but there are quiet murmurs of agreement from the people around them, and the man on his seatmate’s other side even claps him on the back in thanks. Chagrined, the couple slump down in their seats, their lips unhappily sealed.

Harry turns to the man next to him, who’s already looking at him from under the smudge of long, dark lashes that frame his blue eyes. A slow grin overtakes Harry’s face as he meets the man’s steady gaze. For once his words don’t fail him, and he leans in just close enough so the man will be able to hear him as he whispers “thank you.” His grin twists into a smirk as the man lifts in eyebrows in apparent surprise; like a lot of people, he might be surprised at the low register of Harry’s speaking voice or, more likely, he’s shocked that Harry can string two words together after he’s been struck mute all night.

Secure in the knowledge that he’ll be able to muster up words for an introduction to his knight in shushing armor once the lights go up, he turns in his seat to watch the show in front of him now that the one behind him has been silenced. Now that he’s finally able to, Harry watches the rest of the second act with rapt attention; he might have forgotten the man next to him entirely if not for the occasional, possibly accidental but probably on purpose nudges against his knee from his left. He keeps his eyes on the stage, but deliberately angles his knee toward the man next to him to let him know the casual touches are more than welcome.

Now that he can immerse himself in the play, Harry belatedly realizes that he’d been so focused on finally seeing a show at the Shubert that he forgot to think about the actual show itself. He’s seen the classic movie adaptation of To Kill A Mockingbird, of course, but he’s always preferred rereading his beat-up paperback by himself. Seeing a modern adaptation with an audience is a completely different experience, and at times it’s downright uncomfortable, which he suspects is at least partly the point.

Harry struggles to reconcile the Atticus Finch played by Jeff Daniels with the Atticus Finch who took root in his heart when he was a child and who he’s looked up to ever since. The actor from Harry’s home flyover state has the gravitas demanded by the role, but this Atticus comes across as almost foolish at times by 2019 standards, espousing showing kindness and compassion to Klan members. The audience seems divided as well, audibly reacting when Calpurnia, in a deservedly larger speaking role, comments that reacting to racism with kindness is, in turn, being cruel to the people of color in the Finches’ lives. The production demands a level of introspection that Harry hadn’t expected and by the time the closing words, “All rise,” are uttered, he’s completely spent.

Blowing out a breath, Harry sits back in his seat. He won’t be able to work through all of his feelings about the play tonight, it’s sure to stay with him for days, so he tries to subtly shake out his shoulders before turning to his left. He has a man to introduce himself to. But just as he turns his head and opens his mouth to speak, the man behind them bumps into the back of Harry’s seat one last time as he and his wife stand to leave. Stunned by the final act of rudeness, Harry watches helplessly as they walk away, wishing he had said something this time.

“I don’t know about you, Curly–”

Harry almost tweaks his neck turning it to look back at the man so quickly. He lifts a hand to run through his curls, hoping they’re behaving for once, and the man’s eyes follow the gesture. He grins as he stands up, the crinkled corners of his eyes leaving Harry breathless.

“–but after that, I could use a drink,” he continues, holding out a hand to Harry. “You in?”

The unexpected offer ties Harry’s tongue again, but he nods emphatically, reaching up for the hand he’d admired during the show. The man pulls him up easily and a shiver passes through Harry at the possibilities.

“I’ll follow you,” the man suggests, jutting his chin toward the aisle past Harry. After a split second of silence for the loss of ogling the man’s… assets by walking out the other way behind him, Harry nods again and turns to walk down the emptying row of seats.

Once he reaches the end of the row, a gentle hand on his lower back guides him as he turns right in the aisle, heading toward the hallway. Harry’s cheeks burn, as though he’s the heroine of a Victorian novel and the chaste touch from his gentleman caller will scandalize the public. He falls in step with the crowd of people moving slowly toward the stairs, the feel of the man’s eyes on his back distracting him from anything except putting one foot in front of the other. After filing down the flight of stairs to the orchestra level, he starts toward the small lobby, but the hand on his back steers him down another hallway.

“This way,” the man murmurs from his new position next to Harry. “There’s doors behind the orchestra, leads right out to the Alley.”

The crush of people dissipates and Harry can breathe again as the man ushers him toward the doors. He revels in the warm hand he can feel on his lower back through the thin fabric of his blouse; it’s a small thing, a simple gesture really, but Harry feels taken care of in a way that he hasn’t for a long time. It’s not until now, the sensation enveloping him in giddy warmth, that he lets himself remember how much he’s been craving it.

They spill out onto the sidewalk at last and the balmy air of the first truly warm night of spring hits them. Harry basks in it, the night full of possibility and something that feels a little bit like magic, as he comes to a stop and turns to face the man.

Fuck’s sake, he needs to know his name, if for no other reason than he can’t keep mentally referring to him as “the man.”

The magic in the air doesn’t prevent Harry from stumbling over absolutely nothing as he turns but maybe it’s responsible for the way the man immediately reaches out to steady him.

“Oops,” Harry mumbles, moving the hand he’d intended to offer for a handshake in introduction to tug at his lower lip in embarrassment.

“Hi,” the man says easily, as if Harry isn’t the most embarrassing person he’s ever met. Not that they’ve officially met yet. But then he holds a hand out for Harry to shake and says, “I’m Louis.”

“Harry,” he replies, taking the man’s – _Louis’_ – hand to shake. He forgets to let go after a moment, eyes dropping to their entwined hands as he marvels at the Louis’ soft skin, something he couldn’t tell from his staring earlier.

“So, Harry,” Louis says breezily, making no effort to disentangle his hand. “Do you really want to have a drink with me? It’s okay if you were just being polite–”

“No!” Harry only realizes how his rushed reassurance sounds like anything but when he sees Louis’ face fall. He gives Louis’ hand a final squeeze before finally releasing it. “I mean, _no,_ I wasn’t just being polite. _Yes,_ I want to have a drink with you.”

“Good,” Louis says, more to himself than to Harry. He pushes a long piece of his caramel-colored hair off of his forehead, and then rubs his hands together. “Good. Got anywhere in mind?”

And as a matter of fact, Harry does.

“Do you know Bettibar?” he asks, ruffling his hand through the unruly curls that threaten to fall over his own forehead. As Louis shakes his head, Harry continues, “’S on Restaurant Row, over on 46th, it’s a quick walk. A friend of mine bartends there weeknights.”

“Meeting the friends already, Harold?” Louis clucks, shaking his head. “Bit soon, isn’t it?”

Fuck. Harry blanches, but before he can say anything, Louis laughs and pokes him lightly in the ribs.

“I’m only joking,” he says, holding his hands up. “Bettibar then, I’m buying.”

“You don’t have to–”

“Hey, I invited you,” Louis protests. “It’s on me. Alright, you ready, Curly? You sure you don’t wanna stick around and stage door for Jeff Daniels?”

Harry clutches his wrinkled Playbill to his chest and shakes his head. “No, I’m good. Let’s go.”

They fall into step, Harry leading the way this time through Shubert Alley so they can cut down 45th.

“I’m glad you said yes,” Louis remarks. “We could both use a drink after sitting through the Stepfords’ marital issues on parade.”

A loud honk of a laugh escapes Harry, entirely unbidden, and he blushes but Louis looks delighted when he glances over at him, so Harry wills his hands to stay at his sides instead of give into his nervous tics of lip tugging and hair ruffling.

“Say,” Louis says, nudging Harry with his elbow, “do you think they were bribing that coach at Columbia to get their daughter in? Like Aunt Becky and all those CEOs and shit?”

“What?” Harry laughs, watching as Louis turns his whole body to face Harry as he keeps pace with him on the sidewalk, managing not to knock into anyone.

“No, listen,” Louis says brightly, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “It all adds up, they’re total scammers like all those Ivy League parents that got caught. Exhibit A: the email…”

Louis’ enthusiasm is contagious and Harry can’t stop laughing as he lays out the evidence that Harry had missed while trying his best to tune out the bickering couple, somehow ending up following Louis on their short walk to his favorite bar. Louis is about to pass right by the unobtrusive entrance, walking backward now as his gestures become grander and his voice louder, so Harry reaches out to tug at his arm.

“We’re here.”

*

“This place is great.”

Louis looks around the small bar from his perch at their corner table as Harry picks at his flaking black nail polish across from him. Small doesn’t really cover it; this place is tiny, just one room on the second floor of a converted brownstone filled with small tables and the low hum of its murmuring patrons. The wall behind the bar is lined with bottles and glassware right up to the ceiling and the two bartenders seamlessly bustle around each other making and pouring drinks. The light from the chandelier gives the room, and the impromptu date, a soft glow.

“You come here a lot?” Louis asks, turning back to Harry, who doesn’t need mood lighting to glow. “After seeing a show?”

“Oh, um…” Harry stumbles over the words, furrowing his brow and moving a hand to tug through his chocolate brown curls. “Well, I…”

If it was anyone else, Louis would already be poking at them to spit it out, but something about Harry makes Louis feel infinitely patient. He’s usually moving a mile a minute, needing everyone around him to keep pace, but as he watches Harry search for the right words, Louis finds that he’s perfectly content to give him all the time he needs. Maybe it’s the timbre of that deep voice, or the way he furrows his eyebrows in concentration, or those long fingers, each one adorned in a gaudier ring, currently pinching his plush bottom lip. Harry’s a bit of mystery to him, and normally that would drive Louis crazy; he’ll tell just about anyone his life story and gets along best with people who are the same way. But he feels a pull to this shy boy, and he doesn’t mind working a little harder to get him to open up.

He has a sneaking suspicion that Harry is worth it.

“Not really, no,” Harry says regretfully at last. He frowns. “I live a few blocks away, so it’s convenient, and Zayn” – Harry jerks his chin toward the tattooed bartender who’d silently taken their order without cracking a smile – “he gives a generous rose pour if I’ve had, you know, like a bad day or something. I don’t actually get to, uh, the theatre very often.”

Louis smothers the urge to reach across the table and smooth out Harry’s frown with his fingers. Probably best to wait ’til their second date for that kind of thing.

“Well, you picked the right show tonight,” Louis remarks, pulling the sleeves of his sweater down around his hands in an attempt to keep them to himself. “I’ve been dying to see it for months now, ever since I first heard about it.”

“Oh, really?” Harry scrunches his nose and it’s somehow the most adorable thing Louis has ever seen. “How come? I mean, I know, um, why, you know… why I wanted to see it? But…”

“I’m a huge Sorkin fan,” Louis explains, sensing that if he doesn’t break in, Harry will never actually finish his question. “Love his stuff, so when I heard he was adapting the play, I knew I had to see it. Been a fan for years now, I was a West Wing junkie, loved The Newsroom. A Few Good Men, The Social Network, even The American President.”

“What d’you mean,” Harry starts, his slow grin revealing dimples, actual dimples. _“Even_ The American President? That’s a classic.”

“Oh,” Louis says brightly, raising his eyebrows in delight at Harry perking up. “We’ve got a rom com fan, huh? You’re right, it’s great, but it was kind of like a test balloon for West Wing, don’t you think? And those first four seasons, now _those_ are classic.”

Louis can practically see Harry’s hackles raise, but he’s biting back a grin, so Louis hasn’t fucked it up yet. And it’s imperative that he doesn’t fuck this up; he desperately wants to impress this boy, to get to know him better, to see how soft his pink, bitten lips are. But Louis’ never been able to bite his tongue when it comes to The West Wing, and he’s not about to start now.

No matter how pretty this boy is.

Before Harry can launch into the diatribe he’s so clearly gearing up for, it’s written all over his lovely face, Zayn arrives at their table with a tray carrying Harry’s champagne cocktail and Louis’ beer. He sets the drinks down, winks at Harry, glares at Louis, and stalks away wordlessly.

“So that’s your friend,” Louis says mildly. “He seems nice.”

Harry barks a laugh and immediately claps his hand across his mouth. A light pink dusts his cheeks and his light green eyes sparkle and Louis vows to do whatever it takes to make him laugh like that again.

“Man of few words,” Harry manages after a moment. “You just have to get to know him.”

“Yeah?” Louis says skeptically, looking toward the bar. “How’d you two meet?”

“He’s my tattoo artist,” Harry replies, holding his arm out and tugging up the short sleeve of his black blouse to point to a large, anatomical heart on his bicep. “He did this one, and then the ship and the mermaid.”

“So you wear your heart on your sleeve, eh?” Louis asks, looking up at Harry through his lashes to see if it will make him blush again.

(It does.)

Harry hums and lets go of his sleeve, picking up his glass and raising it without making eye contact.

“Cheers,” Louis says, clinking Harry’s glass with his own and then taking a sip. He grimaces. “Well, this hipster shit isn’t Stella, but I guess it’ll do.”

“Hey,” Harry whines, drawing out the word. He pouts, actually pouts, and it’s far more endearing than a pout on an adult man’s face has any right to be. “’S not hipster shit.”

“Nah, I’m only teasing,” Louis says, taking a chance and nudging Harry’s ankle with his foot. It earns him a small smile, which he returns with a grin before taking another sip of the admittedly decent beer before he remembers what they were talking about. “Wait, so you live in the Theatre District but you don’t go to the theatre very much? Why not?”

“Just outside of it, yeah. And I can’t afford it,” Harry says simply, shrugging. He looks down at his lap. “I can never figure out the right places to look for a discount, so I have trouble finding a good enough one. I mean, 20% off of, like, $150 or whatever is still pretty steep.”

“Well, first, I can help you with that,” Louis offers, leaning to look up and down at Harry’s cream loafers and baggy, wide-legged pants under the table, “And second, not to be that guy, but maybe you could go to the theatre more often if you wore less Gucci?”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up and he purses his lips at Louis. “How did you–”

“I like to think I know a thing or two,” Louis says airily, mock dusting off the shoulder of his Isabel Marant sweater. “No, Gucci’s not really my aspirational label, I’m more of a Paul Smith man if there’s a sale, Tom Ford if we’re just dreaming. But my sister Lottie, she’s a makeup artist, pretty successful one actually, and she’s been obsessed with Gucci since she worked on one of their shows during Fashion Week. Being in the same room as Alessandro Michele was, like, her dream come true even though she didn’t get to actually meet him. So I’ve picked up a thing or two from her, and I recognized the stitching by the hem.”

“I’m impressed.” Harry sticks his leg out and looks down at the red-stitched ‘LOVED’ before looking back up at Louis. “And that’s, um, really sweet, it sounds like you two are really close, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis nods, gesturing toward Harry’s outfit. “And I can tell just by looking, she’ll love you.”

“Meeting the family already, Louis?” Harry grins, looking very proud of himself for a moment, but the joke catches Louis off guard and when he doesn’t reply right away, Harry’s face falls.

And Louis just cannot have that.

“It’s sass, right?” Louis deadpans. “You’re sassing me.”

He can tell Harry caught the American President reference, but he seems unsure of himself, doubt flickering across his face. Louis tries to wait for Harry to make up his mind about where to take the conversation next, but he decides Harry might need some help.

“Go on, Curly,” he says, his voice disgustingly fond even to his own ears. “Tell me about your Gucci habit, then.”

“Oh, well,” Harry smiles and sips his cocktail. “Okay, so the, um, loafers are last season. I have a friend who’s a stylist, he tipped me off when he took them to a consignment shop and I kept going there to push them back on the shelf, hide them from everyone else, right? And they finally got marked down. The pants are fake, though, my friend – he’s Harry, too – he made them for me after I got drunk and cried on his shoulder one night about how I’d never be able to afford a pair of the real ones. They came out kind of loose, but I like ’em that way.”

“Mm, very enterprising, Harold,” Louis says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “And the pink socks? How did you come across those?”

“Stole ’em off my sister,” Harry says proudly, puffing his chest out a little. This time he doesn’t deflate and Louis swears his heart grows about three sizes.

Louis shakes his head; Harry’s adorable but also really fucking sexy, what with the top buttons of his shirt undone, and Louis is barely keeping it together.

“So how’d you swing it tonight?” Louis asks, nudging Harry’s ankle again just because he can. “Why’d you want to see the show? Because of your undying affection for Sorkin’s rom com masterpiece?”

_“No,”_ Harry says, grinning madly at the table and then glancing up. “The ticket was a birthday present from my grandparents.”

And here Louis was starting to think he couldn’t be more endeared by this sweet boy.

“That’s so sweet,” Louis murmurs. “When is your birthday? Is it tonight, is that why you got champagne? Get Zayn over here, we’ll get a bottle and some cake.”

Louis twists in his chair, acting as though he’s about to call Zayn over, and Harry grabs his hand before he can lift it.

“Louis,” he laughs, blushing again. “Stop, no. My birthday was weeks ago; they didn’t know how fast the shows would sell out.”

“Well, happy birthday, regardless,” Louis says, using his free hand to clink Harry’s glass again and keeping the hand in Harry’s completely still so he won’t spook him into dropping it. “Are you a fan of the book, then? Or the movie?”

“Definitely the book,” Harry says, his words tumbling out more quickly than they have all night. Unfortunately for Louis, he lets go of Louis’ hand to gesture, practically doing jazz hands now that he’s talking about something he’s passionate about. “It was my favorite book when I was growing up, I’ve read it like a hundred times.”

A conversation about the adaptation they just saw would be the natural next step, but that subject might be a little heavier than Louis wants at the moment, so he casts about for a good segue.

“And the Shubert,” he comments, noting the way Harry’s eyes light up at the name. “That’s a great place to go to if you don’t get a chance to see many things, I love that theatre.”

“Me too,” Harry says excitedly before his shoulders sag and he pinches his poor lip again. “Well, I mean… it’s just, I do love it, but I… I hadn’t really been there before? That was my first, you know, time going. There. The Shubert.”

“Oh, really? That’s like a bucket list theatre, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Harry nods emphatically. “I couldn’t believe it when I got the tickets in the mail and saw ‘mezzanine.’ I probably could have made it there sooner, but I didn’t want to buy, like, the cheapest seat all the way in the back of the house, you know?”

“I do, I get that,” Louis replies. “Though I will say, because of the way it’s built, you can still see everything, like the smallest thing on stage still translates at the back.”

“So you’ve been there before?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis nods, trying to remember. “Few times, saw Chicago there, Spamalot.”

“I just… I know it’s silly, but I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“Why is that silly?” Louis asks, nudging Harry’s ankle.

“I just, um…” Harry mumbles. “I kind of… romanticized it in a way? I pass by it all the time and it’s so different from everything else, it’s beautiful and distinct, it really stands out on that corner, and I know I’m like projecting or whatever, but it kind of stands proudly? And I kind of really… that’s, like… I know most people look up to, like, their favorite celebrities or whatever, which is way more normal, but like… I don’t know, that’s how I want to be. Different, do my own thing, be my own person, hold my head up. Not care what people think so much.” Harry covers his eyes with his hands. “Sorry, sorry, I’m an idiot, I know, it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Louis says softly, prying one of Harry’s hands from his face and meeting his hesitant gaze. “It’s not. Honestly. Drawing that kind of inspiration is so much more interesting than, like, copying the Kardashians’ every move on Instagram or something. And as far as I’m concerned, the world could use more romantics.”

A blush blooms across Harry’s face, spreading down his neck to the bit of chest exposed by the few buttons undone at the top of his shirt. It’s gorgeous, by the far the best blush yet, and Louis loses himself for a moment admiring the beautiful, endearing man across from him.

“You’re kind of quirky,” Louis observes, sitting back and taking a long pull of his beer. “I like quirky. And curly!” He points to Harry’s hair, a lock of which promptly flops over his forehead. “Quirky and curly, my two favorite things.”

Harry pushes his hair off his forehead, his face a curious mix of embarrassed and pleased that Louis wants to see again.

“So, Curly,” Louis says, rubbing his hands together. “Tell me, what other theatres have you been to? Do any of them hold a candle to the Shubert?”

“Actually,” Harry says, sitting up with a bright smile. “The last time I went to a show, it was at the Booth Theatre next to the Shubert. It was like, so close, yet so far.”

“Really?” Louis asks, inordinately pleased at how much more comfortable Harry seems. “What’d you see, then, tell me all about it.”

“So my sister, Gemma, was in town,” Harry explains. “She got tickets to Les Liaisons Dangereuses, do you know it?”

“Do I know it,” Louis scoffs, doing his best to ignore the slight French accent Harry put on to say the title so he doesn’t do something stupid like start to get hard in his pants. “The basis for the iconic late 90s teen movie Cruel Intentions? Yes, Harold, I know it.”

“That’s why Gemma wanted to see it,” Harry exclaims. “She was obsessed with that movie for years, but–”

“It doesn’t really hold up, does it?” Louis winces. “I rewatched it a few months ago and it was kind of a shock to my system.”

“Exactly,” Harry nods. “We watched it that weekend, and it just… you can really tell it was made twenty years ago, a lot of that stuff would never fly today.”

“Hopefully not, yeah,” Louis agrees. “So the Booth Theatre, that’s a good one, yeah? Did you know, that’s actually the theatre they go to in that West Wing episode, you know the one? Was it a season finale? It must have been. Anyway, they’re all in New York for that fundraiser, The War of the Roses, which is at the Booth, and listen, I love the theatre but you could never drag me to that, it's like a hundred hours long. Anyway, I forget some of it, Josh was sparring with Amy, who I _love_ even though Josh and Donna were always obviously end game, but I don't know over what, and anyway the Secret Service agent who C.J. is into is killed in a holdup just when it’s okay for them to actually be together, and it’s fucking awful, they play a cover of Hallelujah, you know just to make absolutely sure they get us to cry, and then the President tells the other guy, Ritchie, that ‘Boy, crime. I don’t know,’ is when he decided to–”

Louis breaks off when he notices Harry scrunching his nose fondly at him. He laughs and smooths his hair off his forehead. “I told you, West Wing junkie. I make no apologies.”

“You’re really cute when you’re explaining West Wing plotlines.”

Harry says it so casually, no filler words or nervous tics, looking Louis straight in the eye, that suddenly the tables have turned and Louis is the tongue-tied one. If he thought he was into shy, blushing Harry, he’s really into this confident Harry, resting his elbow on the back of the empty chair next to him and smirking at Louis’ temporary loss of speech.

“Well,” he mutters after a moment, picking at the corner of the label on his beer bottle, _“you’re_ really cute when you’re flustering me.”

Harry preens and it’s official: Louis is a goner. He’s falling for him – no, he already fell for him. Really, it had taken just the one first look back at the theatre when he sat down before the show, but these moments where he just knows – Harry is special, Harry is going to be someone special to him – keep cropping up. It should be overwhelming, but instead Louis just feels secure. Safe. Even though he’s a little flustered.

They sit in companionable silence for a moment, sipping their drinks. Neither of them are close to being done; maybe Harry is just as determined as Louis to draw the night out for as long as they can.

“So,” Louis says, replaying the last bit of their conversation in his head. “Your sister, you said she was visiting? Where from?”

“Back home,” Harry says, setting down his glass and holding his hand up to point near the base of his thumb. “Michigan, see Ann Arbor is right about here.”

“What are you doing?” Louis laughs, glancing from Harry’s hand back to his face.

“I’m answering your question,” Harry huffs goodnaturedly. “See, right here, that’s where I’m from. Ann Arbor. Go Blue.”

He jabs at his hand again and Louis collapses into giggles.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he wheezes. “I didn’t know that was a real thing! The hand thing.”

“Well, why wouldn’t it be?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest but unable to keep the grin off his face. “Michigan is shaped like a hand, you can just point to it like a map.”

“Of course, silly me,” Louis replies, trying and failing to keep a straight face. Harry is just so _cute._ “You know, Jeff Daniels is from Michigan.” He taps the Playbill he set at the side of the table when they sat down. “Says right here he founded a theatre there.”

“I do know,” Harry replies, beckoning at Louis with his hand. “Here, give me your hand, I’ll show you where.”

Louis holds out his left hand, palm up, but Harry bats it away, reaching for Louis’ right hand instead.

“Here, look,” Harry says, manhandling Louis’ hand until he has the palm up just how he wants it. “See, the thumb is on the right side, you had it backwards.”

Louis would happily let Harry manhandle him for the rest of his life, or at least the rest of the night to start if he’s interested, but he tries to pay attention as Harry rests a fingertip in the middle of Louis’ hand, close to the first knuckle of his middle finger. The tip of his tongue pokes out of his mouth as he concentrates, once again besting his own record for cuteness.

“That’s where Chelsea is,” Harry mutters, glancing up. “I think so, anyway.”

“You would know better than me,” Louis replies. “I’ve never been to Michigan.”

“That couple,” Harry says, his face darkening. “You know, the ones behind us? They called it a flyover state; that was before you got there.”

“What?” Louis isn’t even feigning his outrage for Harry’s sake. Those assholes. “Those absolute assholes. What a load of bullshit. I hope they didn’t ruin your night.”

Harry gives up all pretense of using Louis’ hand as a map – which he highly doubts anyone actually does, Harry must be fucking with him – and starts toying with Louis’ fingers.

“No,” he murmurs. “They didn’t.”

“Oh, um, good,” Louis manages as the implication of Harry’s words settles. “Good, I know how much going to the Shubert must have meant. And they were definitely the worst people I’ve had to sit by at a show.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, his eyes on his Louis’ hand. “No theatre horror stories?”

It’s impossible to think with Harry’s fingertips drawing light circles on his hand, but Louis gives it a valiant effort.

“Um, not really?” Louis sits up in his chair as he finally thinks of something to say. “Okay, not a horror story, because there was someone to save the day–”

“Sounds familiar,” Harry says innocently.

“Shush, Harold,” Louis mock admonishes. “I’m telling a story. Okay, so I was in the will call line for The Iceman Cometh. The very long line, like _lose the will to live_ long. And this guy blatantly cuts in front of me, but I’ve been so beaten down by the wait, it’s just one guy, I figure I’ll just let this one slide and we’ll all eventually be on our merry way, right? Wrong. The woman in line in front of where he’d cut spins around and says ‘Excuse me. There is a _line._ And it is _behind_ you.’ And the guy just turns and walks to the back of the line, tail between his legs, totally shamed in front of everyone.”

Louis pauses for effect, waiting for Harry to look up again from where he’s caressing Louis’ hand and driving him crazy.

“And that woman,” Louis says with a flourish, “was Patti LuPone.”

“Really?” Harry grins. “That’s so fucking cool. She’s such a badass.”

“What about you?” Louis asks, lifting his beer with his free hand to take a sip. “No stories or anything?”

“Well, there was one year,” Harry starts, tugging Louis’ hand over to hold fully in his own. “I was making good money and I decided to splurge, so I got an MTC subscription.”

“Manhattan Theatre Club?” Louis asks, squeezing Harry’s hand. “I’m more of a Roundabout man myself, but continue.”

“Well, you know how it is,” Harry says. “You see the same people over and over again, right? And every show I went to, I saw the same older woman, and she was terrifying. She would always, without fail, do the same three things.” Harry holds up his free hand to count off using his fingers. “One, wear the same tall, white _fur_ hat. Two, sit second row on the center aisle. And three, leave in an extremely disruptive way before the play was over. Every time. I managed to steer pretty clear of her, though. Not like tonight.”

“Oh, fuck, wait,” Louis exclaims, slapping his forehead. “Hang on, I completely forgot my best story.”

Harry grins as Louis wriggles with excitement. “Come on, Lou, enough buildup, tell me.”

“Alright, Curly, okay.” Louis beams, his enthusiasm buoyed by the nickname slipping from Harry’s lips. “Okay, so years ago, my sister, Lottie, the makeup artist? She got my whole family addicted to those Real Housewives shows – you know, on Bravo?”

Harry presses his lips in a firm line, but nods encouragingly for Louis to continue, so he brushes it off. He wouldn’t be the first guy Louis has dated who doesn’t get the obsession.

“A friend of mine scored tickets to LuAnn’s first Cabaret show at 54 Below,” Louis says, his excitement undamped by the practical grimace of Harry’s face. “And we were all the way in the back, but it was glorious, let me tell you, we had a perfect view of Dorinda heckling her. ‘Jovani! Jovani!’ It was _insane.”_

“Oh, wow,” Harry mumbles, lifting his glass and draining the rest of his cocktail.

“What?” Louis asks, taken aback. Harry’s been nothing but a total sweetheart all evening, but suddenly Louis feels judged, and he hates it.

“So, you… watch those shows?” Harry winces when Louis nods. “Ugh, this is embarrassing. It’s not you, it’s me–”

“Where have I heard that before,” Louis mutters darkly. What the fuck? This had been going so well, now it’s over because what? Louis watches Bravo shows?

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Harry says earnestly, tugging at Louis’ hand until he makes eye contact. “I’m not trying to judge you or anything, I would never do that–”

“Kinda feels like it, Curly,” Louis says gently, trying desperately to rein in his temper and not get defensive before allowing Harry to explain whatever his apparent deep-rooted Housewives issues are.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry, I really am.” Harry looks absolutely miserable, so Louis nudges his ankle. He looks up with a small smile. “I just, like… have a past with them?”

“A past? With who? The Housewives?”

“Oh my god, I’m an idiot,” Harry says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Okay. I’m a hairstylist, that’s what I do for a living. And my first job out of school was at this Upper East Side salon, lots of ladies who lunch. And I hated it. It wasn’t creatively fulfilling and the women were awful. We had to wear tight black clothes to work, and they were always trying to slip cash for tips in my pocket like I was a sex worker or something. Not that there’s anything wrong with sex workers! I don’t mean to invalidate anyone, it’s just–”

“It’s okay, I get what you mean,” Louis reassures him. “Sounds like you were Johnny in Dirty Dancing or something.”

“Exactly,” Harry sighs in relief. “Like, none of them picked up on me being gay or anything, they all treated me like a little pet or a piece of meat.” He shudders. “Anyway, so you, um, you watch the New York one, then, right? The Housewives?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis answers.

“So the one woman, Bethenny, remember when she cut her hair between seasons a couple of years ago?”

“Fuck yeah, I do, LuAnn had a meltdown in the Berkshires over Bethenny stealing her–” Louis breaks off when it hits him. He looks up at Harry’s grim expression. “You didn’t.”

“I did. I cut Bethenny’s hair,” Harry confesses. “And LuAnn, the Countess? She poached me after that fight in the Berkshires, and my bosses wouldn’t let me say no, so I kept having to take appointments at her home to style her for the parties that were going to be filmed and it was just… the worst, I hated it. She was so… like on the surface, it was like she was being gracious? But it was so fake, and she would say the cattiest things.”

“I’ll be honest,” Louis says, squeezing Harry’s hand and wishing away the pained look on his face. “Part of me really wants you to spill every last drop of tea, but I’m just really sorry that was such a negative experience for you.”

“Thanks,” Harry says softly. “I’d tell you if I remembered specifics, but I focused so hard on tuning her out and just doing the work that–”

“Just like tonight, huh?” Louis muses. “That awful couple, and you didn’t even take in the passive-aggressive bullshit they were spewing, you just tried to tune them out.”

“Yeah?” Harry bites his lip and raises his eyebrows.

“You’re just…” Louis huffs a laugh and smooths his hair off his forehead. “I don’t know, I just like that about you. You don’t focus on the negative, you keep it moving. It’s… refreshing, actually.”

“Yeah, but you… you’re, like, protective? I really wanted to say something to those people, but I couldn’t even bring myself to, like, pointedly shake my head. And you just took care of it, for everyone around us. I like that, that’s refreshing.”

Louis nods, never sure how to simply accept a compliment, and takes a sip of his beer. He’s dismayed to find that’s the last of the bottle, setting it down carefully and weighing the pros and cons of asking Harry if he wants a second drink. Looking up to meet Harry’s steady gaze, he sees for the first time that there are tiny gold flecks in his green eyes and he decides to throw caution to the wind.

“Say, Curly,” he says, as casually as he can manage. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Nothing,” Harry says eagerly. “Why? What’ve you got in mind?”

“I have tickets to The Cher Show,” Louis answers, grinning as Harry’s whole face lights up. “I was going to drag my friend Niall with me, but, um… would you like to go?”

“Yes,” Harry says emphatically, wiggling in his chair and clapping his hands together. “Yes, I would love to. I really want to see that, I love Cher.”

“Yeah? You’re not just humoring me?”

“No, not at all,” Harry shakes his head earnestly. “The best Christmas present I ever got was the Believe album on cassette when I was eight. There’s a photo of me triumphantly waving it in the air that Gemma posts on Facebook every year.”

“Oh my god,” Louis bites his lip and looks up the ceiling, shaking his head. “Harry, you can’t just say things like that. You’re too cute, it’s too much, oh my god.”

“I make no apologies for cuteness,” Harry says seriously before he breaks and starts giggling. “But really, you want me to go with you? Because I would really like that. I’d love it, in fact.”

“Me too,” Louis assures him. “I think you’ll love it, I’ve heard the entire audience will just get up and dance during the finale. It’s supposed to be the closest thing to going to a Cher concert without actually going to a Cher concert, that’s why I didn’t want to go solo. God, Niall’s going to be so relieved.”

“Okay, I’m definitely going then,” Harry laughs. “My mom tried to organize a Vegas trip for her, me and Gemma to see her show there, but it fell through.”

“Well, the universe owes you one, then.”

“I’d say she’s looking out for me pretty well.”

“Same here,” Louis says softly. He twists in his chair and raises his hand to catch Zayn’s attention so he can pay their bill, but Zayn just waves him off and turns to another customer. Louis looks back to Harry. “Um…”

“That means drinks are on him,” Harry explains. “I told you, you just have to get to know him.”

“Well, that’s really nice and all,” Louis bristles, “but does this even count as a date if another man pays?”

“Oh,” Harry smirks. “Is this a date?”

“It sure as fuck is, Harold,” Louis replies, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Try to keep up, will you? Now do me a favor, and put your number in here, preferably under ‘Curly’ with one of those dancing ladies emojis and about a thousand hearts.”

Harry blushes, reaching in his pocket and retrieving his phone. “I do everyone with first and last names, or else I’d never find anyone. Can you… what, um…”

“Tomlinson,” Louis murmurs, holding his hand out for Harry to shake over the table. “Louis Tomlinson.”

“Styles,” Harry replies, shaking Louis’ hand slowly before finally releasing it. “Harry Styles.”

“Well, with a name like that, no wonder you went into the hairstyling industry,” Louis remarks, tapping away on Harry’s phone and peeking up to see if he’s blushing.

(He is.)

Harry slides Louis’ phone across the table and Louis does the same. They both linger in their chairs for a moment, looking at each other with goofy faces.

“So, I’ll, uh, text you the details?” Louis asks, running a hand through the longer pieces of his hair at the front.

“Sounds good,” Harry says, slowly standing up.

Louis leaves a few bills on the table for Zayn and they both wave on their way out. A small smile cracks the aloof bartender’s solemn face, but it’s so quick that Louis might have imagined it. Harry leads them toward the door, and Louis notices that he’s flexing one of his hands, as if he can’t make up his mind whether to reach back for Louis or not.

Harry holds the door open and Louis pauses at the top of the narrow steep staircase they’d climbed earlier, Harry’s loose pants making it difficult to ogle his surely pert ass. Belatedly, Louis realizes that’s probably at least partly the point after those Upper East Side vultures hounded him; Harry might be subtly reclaiming the space around his body. As he turns to wait for Harry, his heart breaks a little for him, and Louis vows again not to fuck this up.

Harry stumbles over his own loafer-clad feet and Louis instinctively reaches out to steady him, holding his elbows as Harry clutches Louis’ chest.

“Hi,” Louis murmurs, reveling in close how they are.

“Oops,” Harry whispers, looking at Louis’ mouth. He flicks his eyes up to Louis, brows raised, and Louis nods. They’re already so close that Harry barely has to lean in to brush their lips together.

It’s quick, over almost before Louis realizes it’s happening, but he can feel the ghost of Harry’s lips on his own even after Harry pulls away, rights himself and looks up expectantly.

“Walk me home?”

*

There’s a slight chill to the air as they start toward Harry’s building but they walk leisurely, passing the cigarette that Louis lit outside of the bar back and forth. They trade favorite deep cuts from Cher’s long career (Just This One Time for Harry and When Love Calls Your Name for Louis) and Louis stops near the curb, tucking his Playbill under his arm to demonstrate how he and his mom can never hear the chorus of Dark Lady without doing the candle lighting gestures. The only thing stopping Harry from letting out one of his embarrassing honks of laughter is the sight of Louis’ pale pink lips wrapped around the end of the cigarette. It’s nowhere near obscene, but Harry’s always had a vivid imagination and he can’t help his mouth going dry at the possibilities.

The conversation turns to work on the next block, and Harry tells Louis about the small salon he’s at now. The hours can be long since it only opened a couple of years ago and the owners are still breaking even, but Harry loves it there. It’s more creatively demanding than any other place he’s worked, but it’s satisfying to rise to that challenge; Harry swears he’s learned more at this job than he did in school. And the best part is the diverse clientele, many of them queer, who treat him with kindness and respect.

Louis starts to describe his position at the National Audubon Society and Harry immediately feels self conscious, sure that Louis is giving him the dumbed-down version when he explains that the department he manages utilizes data about donors to recommend fundraising strategies. He nods as Louis chatters on about how it’s budget season so he’s been working long hours too, tugging at his lip as he hopes the fact that he’s definitely not left brained doesn’t put Louis off. After all, Harry’s never been interested in dating someone exactly like himself, what would be the point? He and Louis can complement one another.

As long as Louis feels the same way, that is.

Harry loses track of what Louis is saying about his last business trip, letting Louis’ melodic voice wash over him as he watches Louis lift and wrinkle his curved eyebrows while he speaks. His whole face is so expressive; Harry could just sit and admire him for hours, probably, without getting bored. He’d known from the moment he saw Louis that he was beautiful, but it’s like he’s getting more beautiful the more time Harry spends with him, the more he sees how kind and supportive, and passionate, and fun and witty he is. His imagination takes over again, warring between wooing Louis with home-cooked meals and how Louis’ scruff would feel scraping against his thighs.

“What’d you say the number was again?” Louis asks, looking around the deserted street.

“Oh,” Harry chokes out, hoping his thoughts aren’t written all over his face. He looks around, getting his bearings, and realizes they just passed his building. “Sorry, got caught up listening, I’m back there.”

“Mm, listening,” Louis nods. He glances over at Harry, his blue eyes sparkling. “That’s an intense ‘listening’ face you’ve got there, Curly.”

Harry’s cheeks burn as they make their way to the door of his apartment building. Louis stubs out the cigarette they’d been sharing and looks up with a hesitant smile. He holds his arms out and tilts his head, a silent question on his face. Grinning like an idiot, Harry ducks into his arms, reveling in the way their bodies fit together perfectly. He turns his head to kiss Louis’ cheek, but Louis moves at the same time and their mouths accidentally connect. It’s not so much a kiss as parted lips brushing just past each other, and it stuns them both into silence for a moment.

Louis takes a small step back, breaking the moment first. “Well, I should–”

“Do you want to come up?”

The words are out of Harry’s mouth before he’d even planned them, and he bites his lip.

“Oh, thank god,” Louis laughs, stepping back into Harry’s space. “I wasn’t, um…”

“Wasn’t ready to let go of you yet,” Harry finishes quietly, glancing up at Louis.

“Yeah,” Louis nods, reaching up and twirling one of Harry’s curls in his fingers. “Yeah, exactly.”

Harry can barely breathe, the moment is too charged, too intimate for the first night they’ve met, but it feels right, like every rom com cliche about feeling like coming home that’s ever made him cry is coming true. He nudges into the touch until Louis’ whole hand is in his hair, gently tugging, and Harry’s cock twitches in his pants.

He needs to get Louis upstairs. Now.

The gentle hand on his lower back distracts him and Harry struggles to get his key in the lock, but luckily he manages it before he really embarrasses himself and Louis has to do it for him. He grabs Louis’ hand and strides through the lobby, tugging him along as he climbs the flight of the stairs. A soft laugh follows him as he hastens up the second flight of stairs, but Harry’s past feeling embarrassed apparently, having moved onto eager.

Maybe a bit desperate.

Once they reach his door, Harry fumbles with his keys again as Louis stands behind him. He rests his hands on Harry’s hips, and nuzzles into the back of Harry’s neck, like that’s going to help them get inside any faster. Harry’s pulse races as he jabs the key against the lock, almost to the point of just dropping to his knees for Louis right there in the hallway. He manages to get the door open by sheer luck and they tumble inside.

Harry flicks the light on and stands in the middle of the room, his chest heaving as Louis closes the door behind them.

“Do you want anything?” he asks, shoving a hand through his curls. “Water? Coffee? I don’t have beer, but I think there’s some cheap prosecco–”

“Harry,” Louis says gently, taking a step toward him. “If we’re being honest, all I want is you.”

Closing his eyes, Harry exhales. When he opens them, Louis is right in front of him, smiling.

“Is that okay?”

Harry lifts his hand and traces the crinkled corners of Louis’ deep blue eyes.

“More than okay.”

He drops his hand to grab Louis’ and tugs him over to the couch, pulling him along as he drops into it. Louis tosses his bent Playbill onto the coffee table, and then plucks Harry’s ticket from his front shirt pocket to carefully set on top of it before sitting back on the couch.

“I could get used to you manhandling me, Curly,” Louis remarks as he angles his body toward Harry.

“Oh, um,” Harry mumbles, only looking up at Louis when a hand lightly tugs at his curls. “Actually, I... um… I usually like it the other way around?”

“Actually,” Louis whispers in his ear. “So do I.”

A shiver travels down Harry’s back and he shifts closer to Louis until their bodies are pressed together. Louis captures Harry’s lips in a kiss, and it’s better than the one back at the bar and it’s better than the accidental one downstairs because this time Louis takes charge, lifting his hands to tilt Harry’s head the way he wants it and coaxing Harry to part his lips so he can dip his tongue inside. Harry melts into Louis, pliant in his arms as he licks into Harry’s mouth. One hand toys with the short hair at the base of Harry’s neck and the other slowly slides down Harry’s chest, stopping to undo a button on his blouse.

Louis pauses, his hand lingering on the skin beneath the button he’s just undone and he searches Harry’s eyes.

“This okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry pants, nodding frantically. “Please touch me, I _need_ it, I need you to touch me, I–”

“Alright, sweetheart,” Louis says softly, petting Harry’s curls. He glances down Harry’s prone body and licks his lips. “Here, c’mere.”

He gently but firmly guides Harry to move, until he’s straddling Louis on the couch. Harry watches Louis’ face as his eyes rove over Harry’s body and he runs his hands up and down Harry’s sides.

“Wanna see you,” Louis whispers, meeting Harry’s eyes. “You’re so gorgeous, Harry.”

Harry’s cock, embarrassingly hard already, twitches again as he fumbles with the buttons on his blouse. After he manages to undo the first, he can’t quite get the second one and a low whine of frustration escapes him.

“Sh, let me,” Louis says, gently batting Harry’s hands away. He undoes the rest of the buttons, murmuring, “Can’t wait to get my eyes on you, been dying to all night.” He glances up and Harry bites his lip. “The breeze kept pushing your blouse back against your chest outside, did you know that? I have no idea what I was even talking about, was dreaming about getting my hands, no, my _mouth,_ on your puffy nipples.”

Harry gasps, closing his eyes and swaying slightly above Louis. He’s so turned on, he can’t even think, and the knowledge that Louis feels the same way is heady, more intoxicating than the cocktail he’s had earlier.

All of the buttons now undone, Louis smooths his hands up Harry’s chest, bypassing his small, spare nipples to circle his thumbs over the larger puffy ones, which immediately harden enough to cut glass. Harry bites his lip, trying to stifle the moan in his throat, and Louis clucks his tongue. He moves his hands to wrap around Harry’s lower back, pulling him closer. He hovers right in front of Harry’s heaving chest and looks up through his eyelashes.

“Want to hear you.”

And with that, he takes one of Harry’s nipples in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the nub as Harry moans wantonly, certain that Louis’ hands around him are the only thing keeping him upright. He buries his hands in Louis’ hair and arches his back, desperate for more and Louis obliges, biting down just enough for Harry to feel it. Harry gasps again, and Louis moves his mouth to Harry’s other nipple, licking and sucking and biting until Harry’s dripping precome in his pants.

Louis sits back and pushes Harry’s blouse off his shoulders before whipping his own sweater off and tossing it to the side. He drops his hands to the button at the top of Harry’s pants and glances up.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, yes, okay, _please,_ yes.”

This time, Louis doesn’t bother shushing him as he undoes the button and Harry thinks wildly that maybe Louis likes hearing him beg as much Harry likes begging for it, but before he can begin to process that, Louis slides down the zipper and the top of Harry’s pants flop down, revealing the simple white silk panties that can barely contain Harry’s cock.

“All rise, indeed,” Louis murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Harry barks a laugh, but it dies in his throat as Louis tugs down the panties and his cock springs out. He’s fully, achingly hard by this point, and his thighs start to shake as Louis thumbs at the head, messily spreading the precome over it.

“You get so wet,” Louis whispers, more to himself than to Harry, his tone almost reverent, and Harry moans loud enough to wake the neighbors as Louis wraps his hand around him and starts to stroke.

It only takes a few tugs before Harry is coming in thick spurts all over himself and Louis’ hand. He hangs onto Louis’ shoulders for dear life as Louis strokes him through it, whining as he becomes oversensitive but pushing into the touch.

“You like that, baby?” Louis’ voice is hushed, full of awe, and Harry nods, preening at the feel of Louis’ erection twitching up against him, feeling like the sexiest, most gorgeous thing in the world as Louis shakes his head in wonder.

“How are you even real?” Louis asks, stroking Harry again in earnest now. “It’s like you were made just for me, everything I could have ever wanted right here in my lap, how did I get so lucky?”

Louis’ words rip through Harry’s body and he shudders, suddenly frantic with the need to see Louis, to feel him, to get his mouth on him. He pushes weakly at Louis’ shoulders until he sits back against the couch and looks up at Harry appraisingly.

“You want to get on your knees, sweetheart?” Louis asks, moving his hands to squeeze Harry’s hips.

Grateful that Louis put his exact desire into words before Harry could, he nods and, with Louis guiding him, gingerly climbs off his lap. As Harry stands and shoves his pants and underwear down and steps out of his loafers, Louis kicks off his sneakers before he undoes his jeans and slips them off, throwing them on top of his discarded sweater. Harry steps in between in his legs and kneels in front of him, overwhelmed at the tanned flesh spread out of before him.

Louis’ arms are cut, he’s sure now Louis could pick him and manhandle him the way Harry wants, and there’s a slight roundness to his tummy that just makes Harry want to bite it so he does. Louis laughs and tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair, seemingly content to let Harry worship at the altar of his body. He runs his hands up and down Louis’ muscular legs and reaches up to thumb at Louis’ tiny nipples before smoothing his fingertips through the light dusting of chest hair. He traces Louis’ chestpiece, mouthing “it is what it is” to himself and resolving to learn the stories behind each and every one of Louis’ tattoos.

Later. He has a more pressing matter to deal with right now.

He trails his fingers down slowly down Louis’ body until he reaches the thatch of pubic hair. Harry prefers to keep bare himself, like the way it makes him feel smooth, but the auburn hair is neatly trimmed and fucking sexy, and Harry’s mouth starts watering at the sight of Louis’ hard cock. He glances up and Louis nods encouragingly at him. A thrill goes through him at receiving permission and he bends his head to take Louis in his mouth, reveling in Louis’ groan.

He bobs his head a few times, getting Louis nice and wet, and he tugs lightly on Louis’ balls as he start to blow him in earnest. Harry’s own erection, which never flagged, grows impossibly harder at the feel of Louis in his mouth, his legs around him, his hands tugging on his hair. He moans around Louis as he moves a hand to stroke himself, harder than Louis had earlier, the way he likes it when he’s this worked up. Louis’ hands tighten in his hair when he realizes that Harry is getting himself off too and he thrusts weakly into Harry’s mouth.

Harry nods eagerly, relaxing his throat for Louis to thrust up again. He usually has to convince boyfriends that he actually likes this, feeling used, that he gets off on it, but he and Louis are completely in sync and Louis sets a steady pace that Harry matches with his hand on his cock. They’re both gasping and choking out moans and just when Harry is about to reach his peak, Louis taps his shoulder in warning. Harry pulls back just far enough for Louis to move a hand to strip at his cock and closes his eyes and parts his lips.

The room is heavy with the sound of heaving breathing and slapping skin. Harry feels like he’s about to burst, to come out of his skin, but it’s not until he feels the heat of Louis’ come dripping down his chin and chest that he finally comes again. Blinking his eyes open slowly, he stills his hand, barely registering the sticky fluid all over it as he sees Louis admiring him. He blushes, the heat blooming over his cheeks, and Louis leans forward. He cups Harry’s face with his hands, and dips his head to kiss him, filthy from the start, before moving to lick at his come on Harry’s chin.

Harry grips Louis’ legs, belatedly realizing that he’s smearing come onto them. Biting his lip, he pulls away slightly and looks up at Louis, who’s smiling warmly at him.  

“I guess we should clean up, huh?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over Harry’s cheek.

“Yeah,” Harry says sheepishly. He lets Louis help him stand, and then holds a hand out to him, leading him to his miniscule bathroom.

They each wet a washcloth and get to work cleaning their own bodies, but Harry keeps sneaking glances over to Louis and catching him doing the same.

Louis tosses his washcloth into the sink when he’s done and puts his hands on his hips.

“Jesus christ, Harry,” he says, waving a hand up and down at him. “You’re so hot, it’s ridiculous.”

Harry giggles, leaning over to wipe up a dab of come that Louis missed on his shin before straightening up and tossing his washcloth onto Louis.’ It only takes one step to get into his space.

“You’re one to talk, Lou,” he says, smoothing Louis’ hair off his forehead and admiring the cut. Louis could probably use a trim soon, but the long pieces of hair that he can brush to the side or style up and off his face work well with his bone structure.

“No, I’m serious,” Louis protest, pulling Harry closer by his hips. He traces a finger down one of Harry’s laurel tattoos. “It’s unfair, honestly.”

Harry shivers as Louis brings his other hand to run down the matching laurel tattoo.

“Everything about you is hot,” Louis says, glancing up at him. “These are fucking hot. You’re like some kind of Greek god or something. Actually, though, you know what these remind me of?”

“What?” Harry asks, looking down at himself.

“Some of the plasterwork at the theatre,” Louis answers. “You know what I mean, those theatre masks along the wall, it kind of looks like laurels connecting them.”

Harry twists around and raises his arm, pointing to his ribcage. “Look, I have theatre masks, too.”

“Fuck me,” Louis mumbles, running his hand over the spot.

“Already did,” Harry says proudly, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, Curly, no,” Louis laughs. “That was awful.”

“You love it,” Harry says confidently, noting the crinkles by Louis’ eyes as he grins at him.

“Yeah, I do, I do,” Louis says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t awful.”

“Hey,” Harry pouts, poking Louis’s side.

“You, Curly,” Louis says, cupping Harry’s jaw and smacking a kiss to his cheek, “are too–”

He smacks a kiss to Harry’s other cheek.

“–cute–”

Harry giggles madly as he smacks a kiss to Harry’s nose.  

“–for your own–”

A final kiss smacked to his mouth.

“–good.”

Harry leans in and kisses Louis softly before whispering, “Thank you.”

They linger in the bathroom for a long moment, smiling goofily at each other, Louis’ hands on Harry’s shoulders and Harry’s hands on Louis’ hips.

“As much as I hate to do this,” Louis says regretfully with a shiver, “I think I need to get dressed, I’m freezing.”

“Oh! Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Harry exclaims, pushing Louis since he’s closer to the door. “I didn’t even notice it’s cold in here, I run kind of hot.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Louis says over his shoulder as Harry pushes him toward the couch and his pile of clothes.

Harry stops in his bedroom across the hall from the bathroom and grabs a pair of sweatpants to throw on before rushing back out to open living room off his kitchenette where Louis is reluctantly pulling his gray sweater on. Harry smooths it out over his chest, smiling at the colorful stripes along the sleeves.

While Harry pulls on the pair of sweatpants he’s grabbed, Louis pats himself down, mouthing, “keys, wallet, phone,” as he checks that he’s got everything. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spots a box of cigarettes on the floor and reaches over to grab it, handing it back to Louis with a sheepish smile.

“Is it weird that I kind of want to stay?” Louis asks, tucking the box into his pocket.

“No, not weird at all,” Harry replies, tying the drawstrings on his sweats. “I kind of want to ask, but I don’t want you to feel obligated. It’s just–”

“I feel like I’ve known you for so much longer than just tonight,” Louis finishes with a small smile.

“Exactly,” Harry breathes. “That’s exactly it.”

Louis pulls Harry into a hug, swaying him back and forth slightly.

“I would,” he murmurs in Harry’s ear. “But we both have work tomorrow, and I didn’t really plan this out. I’m not sure if my roommate’s home to let the dog out, and–”

“It’s okay,” Harry interrupts, giving Louis one last squeeze. “I get to see you tomorrow, and hopefully, like, a lot of other times after that. Yeah?”

_“Yes,”_ Louis says, running his hand through Harry’s hair. “If it’s okay, tomorrow… I’d like to really take my time with you, yeah?”

Harry flushes under Louis’ intense gaze, sure that he hasn’t blushed this many times in a single day since middle school. He’d hated it then. He _loves_ it now.

“Yeah,” he gulps. “Yeah, okay.”

“But this isn’t, just, like…” Louis waves his hand around. “A sex thing. I want to make you honk that ridiculous, amazing laugh and take you to the theatre and hear about your family and all that, too, okay? Being this, like, compatible? That’s just a really nice bonus.”

“I definitely want that,” Harry says, pulling Louis into another quick hug. “I want all of that. With you.”

“You know, Curly,” Louis says, bending down to slip his shoes on, “I have a feeling this is going to be the story I tell people when they ask about memorable experiences at the theatre.”

“What about Patti LuPone?” Harry asks, following Louis as he walks to the door.

“I don’t think she’ll mind very much,” Louis says, turning to face Harry and gently tugging on one of his curls. “She’s a great lady, Patti.”

Harry leans in and kisses Louis’ lips, then the cluster of freckles he’d admired earlier by his mouth, and his lips again one last time, but not really for the last time since he’ll see him in less than 24 hours.

“Okay, go,” he says, pressing a hand to Louis’ chest. “Before I decide I can’t let you leave.”

“Going, I’m going,” Louis laughs, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll text you about tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay!” Harry calls after him, admiring the view as Louis jogs down the hallway. Louis turns when he reaches the stairs, waves at Harry and gives him a wink, and then he’s gone.

*

Harry’s a morning person, he doesn’t mind when his alarm blares in the morning and he usually gets up without having to hit snooze. But he doesn’t usually feel this _good_ in the morning, smiling as he stretches his arms above him and noting how limber and relaxed he feels. The smile stays on his face all through his morning routine as he brews coffee, goes through his yoga practice, and jumps in the shower.  

Once he’s dressed and his curls are in some semblance of order, Harry walks through the sitting area on his way to the coffee maker. A flash of yellow on the coffee table catches his eye, and he smiles as he realizes that Louis forgot his Playbill the night before. Pouring his second cup of coffee into a travel mug to take with him, Harry ponders whether he should bring it with him when he meets Louis tonight, or invite him back to pick it up.  

Definitely invite him back to pick it up.

With the last few minutes before he has to leave, Harry stands by the coffee maker and checks his phone, dismissing notifications for his email and social media. His heart leaps into his throat when he sees that Louis (upside down smiley face emoji) Tomlinson has texted him.

**_Well, maybe I’ll just go to the country house alone._ **

It takes a minute for the seemingly random phrase to register and Harry laughs as he remembers the night before and how that line being uttered was the straw that broke the camel’s back for Louis. Smiling down at his phone, Harry is fiercely grateful for those awful people and their almost impressive passive-aggression. He and Louis might have – okay, probably would have – spoken and hit it off anyways, but Harry can’t help but feel like they brought them together in some small way. He pockets his phone and rushes out the door, not wanting to be late, and tries to think of the perfect reply to send to Louis.

*

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Louis paces at the subway station, willing the MTA to not fuck him over just this once. He’s running late to meet Harry at the Neil Simon Theatre, and he doesn’t want Harry to think he’s not eager to see him, because he _is._ He can’t wait to hear Harry’s deep voice again, to see Harry’s crooked smile, and those dimples, those sparkling green eyes, the dark pink lips that were plump and puffy after sucking Louis’ cock. Checking to make sure no one is looking, Louis subtly adjusts himself in his pants and tries not to replay the night before in his head while he’s in public.

He’d had the worst time concentrating all day, between vivid images of Harry coming twice flooding his mind and the text conversation they’d kept going throughout the day. God, Harry is just so _cute,_ and his puns are so _bad,_ and Louis wants to save them some time and just marry him already. Although he’d settle for getting to the theatre on time. He checks his phone, delighted to see he has both service and an unread text from Harry. He’s attached a picture from the lobby of the theatre – fuck, Louis is running so late – and Louis drags his fingers over it to enlarge, vaguely recognizing the couple in it from somewhere, and then he realizes that Harry typed a caption.

**_I regret to inform you that no one went to the country home a day early and there is still tension in the air._ **

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! [ fic post](https://disgruntledkittenface.tumblr.com/post/185863503927/just-one-look-and-i-fell-so-hard-by)


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